Let me walk on eggshells. Do not mop the vomit of my many selves.
Call me bitch, a useless whore, while my children quiver in bed. If not for the warmth of their midnight legs flung over my body, I’d rather you leave me for dead.

I think I should rename this space to howtowritesuckypoetry. The Internetz ought to barf out these cliched bytes. But such is the beauty, the ugliness of the Web: bytes are bytes, inspired or not. (Page hits are judgemental mofos though: grim bearers of truth).

Maybe it’s detox. Or ADD. But till better sense strikes, dear Internet, make do with my half-hearted apology as I drivel forth. Fearlessly.